


aching towards fluency

by waitfortheclick



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Image, Eating Disorders, Emetophobia, Established Relationship, Feminization, M/M, Makeup, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Support Systems, Trauma, cartoons, cinema, movies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfortheclick/pseuds/waitfortheclick
Summary: My body is a dead language I am still learning,but you speak its tongues so well.  What Pentecost.What Rosetta stone.  Loving leaves me legible.Warped syntax and tangle of tenses.These are mine alone to translate.  I am aching towards fluency.Everything is flux.  But here is what I know -This is the work of living.  All ecstatic wound.and sunshower.  This precious wreck calls me back.- On Self-Preservation, C. Shea





	aching towards fluency

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Same Computer Astronauts Use to Do Their Taxes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719028) by [easyforpauline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/easyforpauline/pseuds/easyforpauline). 



How could he have forgotten? Pushed up against a wall, heel of his palm smashed up against his mouth, coming hard and gasping out, "Steve, Jesus, you make me feel just like Jean Harlow." He had frozen immediately, still clenching on the fingers up his ass. Terrified in that way that turns seconds into hours, time slowing down as he had panicked about his big mouth and what Steve might think. What he might _say_.

Losing sight of the fact that, of course, what could Steve even say to anyone? "Bucky called himself a dame while I was sucking his cock"? Of course not, but tell that to him at that moment. Bucky was still gulping down air as Steve groaned and sucked on his thigh and came all over the floorboards.

Neither of them had said anything about it, but the next day Bucky got back from working at his dad's office to find a tube of lipstick standing straight up on the tiny bathroom counter. He had laughed, a startled little hiccup of a giggle, and stared. It hadn't been anything fancy, or intricate; just slim, smooth brass, waxy color.

He'd left purple-red rings around Steve's dick that night while Steve stared like he was afraid to blink and said that he was as pretty as Claudette Colbert. Bucky's chest so warm and glowing he felt like fairy lights had been strung around his rib cage. Staring back up and feeling his eyes go all soft and starry, glancing back down demurely to let his eyelashes fan dark against the tops of his cheeks.

He never asked where Steve had gotten it, didn't really care to know. Bucky had thought maybe that was selfish, but it was the only thing he got to have; he hadn't had dresses or perfume or lingerie. Even if he had, he would never have been allowed to keep any of it. The lipstick was something small, easily hidden; it didn't linger like fragrance. He couldn't wear it out but he could carry it in his pocket like the sweetest secret, running his fingers over the metal tube in the velveteen seats of the movie theater.

Cartoons with cross-dressing animals had made him turn bright red under the glow of the screen, Steve laughing hysterically against his shoulder. The cartoons hadn't really bothered him, neither did Steve's reaction; he felt like he was in on the joke. Still, he knew, he knew it was about the deceit, the trickery of ordinary, decent men.

Later, a lifetime later, after months of hands brushing only to be awkwardly snatched away, Bucky finally realized that there was more to the heat under his skin than a stupid animal response to big muscles and full lips.

More than a reaction to Steve slippery with sweat after a run, or with water after a shower, Steve with that motorcycle between his thighs, Steve sappy and smiling every morning at breakfast.

Bucky had sidled up to him that day and said, through his nose, "Eh, what's up, doc?" Steve startled and stared long enough that he felt the need to amend, "Oh. Sorry. I fucked it up, right?" To Steve's continued bafflement, "I'm not remembering wrong, though, right? So it's me. Me now. Listen, I'm sorry, I know I'm not him, I know I can't be him. I don't want to trick you, or --" Steve finally snapped out of it and told him to shut up, grinning like a jack-o'-lantern, and kissed him quiet.

After, stupidly happy and sprawled across the bed, Steve stuttered, "That's all folks!" Bucky shoved his head under a pillow and shrieked.

Once, in bed, Steve whispered into his hair, "It's not illegal anymore, Buck. It's not even that unusual. I mean, if you wanted." Bucky didn't know if he wanted, hadn't ever really thought about it. Outside of the bedroom.

He'd spent such a comparatively short time exploring it at all before the decades of not having anything close to the option. Back then, before the ice and torture and death, it had been unthinkable, so he didn't think about it. He's so touched, though, that Steve would say that, would offer him such a thing.

He wanted to press on, feed into that warm feeling. Steve had never treated him badly for it, but it's one thing to indulge a person in private... He didn't know if he wanted it, but he knew that he liked that Steve wanted it. He wanted to push into that tenderness, worry it like a loose tooth.

Perhaps best of all, he knew Steve would defend him. If worst came to worst, Steve would defend him.

Only, he still wasn't great at choices. He did well enough when the options were limited, concise. Daily activities were fairly easy to navigate for the recently rehabilitated; easy to break down into manageable parts. This hypothetical want, the possibilities, there's no clear answer.

It had been obvious something was wrong, he'd been far too quiet for too long. Steve was worried and Bucky didn't even know if he wanted, let alone what he wanted. He hadn't had a really bad day in a while, neither of them were expecting him to go unresponsive.

Steve had called Natasha and she marched in to the apartment and said, "Soldier, sit." in clipped Russian.

The next thing he was fully aware of was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, between her knees; something animated and soft playing on the TV. Natasha held a mirror to his face; she'd done his hair up in victory rolls.

After she'd left, once she'd set him up with a Pinterest account and a set of red hair elastics, he thought, "Huh, maybe it isn't just about the sex."

One evening, at the Tower, Tony leaned in close to Steve and asked, under his breath, "So, does he identify as a woman, or... ?" Steve looked across to where Bucky had pressed himself tightly against the arm of a couch, met his eyes, smiled, "He identifies _with_ women."

Bucky hadn't been exactly plump before, before everything, but there had still been a softness to him. Something sweet about the curve of his cheeks, the rounded bulge of his muscles, his soft skin. He's gone all gaunt, cheekbones too sharp and skin tight around the mouth and eyes.

He's past the stage of surgical intervention, tubes and holes, liquids for every meal; past vomiting up everything that tastes like anything other than plain white rice. Still, it's difficult for him to remember to eat. To make himself eat when he remembers.

He'd spent so long being trained to ignore internal sensations like hunger, it's difficult for him to recall the importance. To convince himself that the overwhelming fear, the doctors call it "emetophobia", is truly only an "unnecessary reaction of an anxious mind in response to perceived stimuli in an attempt to protect the body."

Steve had been so happy when he'd made his goal weight, Bucky feels ungrateful and foolish feeling anything less than glad. There's still something so severe about him, brittle and sharp with bones and lean muscle. Nothing generous, nothing with give; a machine, and not one built to last.

Steve, though, he doesn't treat him like he's breakable. Doesn't touch him like he's fragile or even like he might cut himself open on Bucky's ragged edges. His hands are big and warm against Bucky's sides, holding his rib cage like he doesn't feel the bones. His touch is firm and unhesitating, sliding down his biceps, his inner thighs. Demanding, like if he asked, Bucky could give. Anything, anything.

Hoisting a leg over his shoulder, positioning him like some sort of doll. Like a very soft doll with sturdy, flexible seams. A doll he could sink into, bodily.

He does: slick cock sliding into Bucky like he's squishy and sweet. Bucky stifles a giggle and thinks about being a marshmallow, impaled on Steve and going all gooey over a camp fire. Steve keeping everything well oiled, comfortable, shoving a pillow under Bucky's hips before they even start. Steve grasping Bucky's bony ass like he's Lana Turner, like Bucky's the best thing he's ever felt.

He feels vaguely ridiculous when Steve grabs at him like that, like his flesh is soft and yielding. He also, however, remembers Steve before the serum. Steve resentful and sullen and Bucky just going liquid warm under his big hands, every time. Sitting with Steve leaning down to kiss him, head tilted back. Standing and leaning down to kiss Steve, his very own James Cagney; short but stalwart in spirit. His man with a quick temper and smart mouth. Feeling breathless when Steve took all that fight and turned it into loving him.

All fine and well, but the arm is a problem. He's been away from Hydra, gone without "maintenance" for a while, had been for a year before Steve even found him. Even after getting his weight up, there is an awkward difference in size.

He keeps insisting that he'll get the other arm back in shape, but it's a struggle. Even consuming more calories he still doesn't really have the energy to lift weights; doesn't have much interest in it anyway. He rarely has the energy to fuck, really. Steve is gentle when he suggests that maybe he shouldn't wait, "Maybe you should focus on what you have now, instead of what you want to have." This, obviously, is unacceptable.

The Soldier does not settle when he could do better. The arm is a magnificent piece of machinery that shouldn't have to suffer for his failures.

Bucky remembers, again and again, that he is no longer the Soldier, has burned all bridges to that particular bank. Remembers that he has been encouraged, by Steve, by Sam, Natasha, the doctors, to think of himself as more than just the sum of his parts.

Sam telling him, "Buddy, the arm doesn't define you. It's not 'there but for the grace of the arm goes Bucky.' OK, yeah, that doesn't really track." Natasha vehemently insisting that his body is not "better" or "worse", only "different" and "in need of care".

He tells Steve that maybe, possibly, he'll talk to Stark like he suggested. Discuss replacing the arm with something sleeker. Steve says, "Don't worry, I'll hover over your shoulder the entire time. Make sure he doesn't make you look like a bulldog, or a monkey."

They've been working their way through film noir, all the societally important post-war cinema they'd missed. It gives Bucky a weird sense of nostalgia, like feeling homesick for a fantasy world.

Steve had been worried, but Bucky adores it. There's a strange satisfaction in the gloom, in the muted and melancholy romance. People were, he learned, disillusioned after the war.

Bucky got that, he knew disillusionment: Hydra used me to shape the century and all I got was this lousy metal arm and a bad case of the willies.

They both loved Dark Passage, obviously. By the end Bucky felt like his heart had turned into cotton candy: sweet, crystalline, fluffy. Later that night, wrapped up in Steve's arms and leaning back into the cushion of his chest, he gasped as he was brought gently yet relentlessly to orgasm. Steve's big hands feeling him up, one slippery with lube and rubbing up and down his cock. The other dipping softly into his open, panting mouth.

Bucky whimpering and automatically sucking, all lips and tongue, feeling lush. The fingers slipping easily out and sliding wetly down his throat, running across his nipples and massaging his chest.

If Steve quietly singing "Too Marvelous for Words" into his ear tipped him over the edge, well, that was between them and the bedroom walls.

**Author's Note:**

> This was largely inspired by my own issues with body image and disordered eating, and merged with another idea I had about Bucky, movies, and Bucky identifying with Lauren Bacall. Reread and edited multiple times by myself but never beta-ed because I got embarrassed. So if you see something, please feel free to say something!


End file.
